


The Bishop's Gambit or No One Expects the Kinky Angel

by vgersix



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, Kinky, Kinky Gen, M/M, NO ONE EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION, No Sex, hot wax, in which laura writes yet another kinktober prompt with no sex in it, okay i'm done, or the horny angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26806966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vgersix/pseuds/vgersix
Summary: We all know Crowley likes to flirt and talk a big game right up until Aziraphale throws it back at him without batting an eye, right? An off-hand comment prompts a storytime prompts a... who knows? ;) Really this was just an excuse to write angel + demon banter and Crowley getting discomfited by his own brazen flirting.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 112





	The Bishop's Gambit or No One Expects the Kinky Angel

**Author's Note:**

> This was a Kinktober prompt that got out of control, lol. Oops. Prompt was "hot wax."

Crowley enjoyed watching Aziraphale work. He’d spent a truly countless number of afternoons coiled up in a blanket on Aziraphale’s couch while the angel dusted the various bric-a-brac about the shop, repaired book spines, and — a bit later on — returned phone calls. 

Today, Aziraphale was writing letters. A bit of an archaic practice, what with the whole Internet thing nowadays, but never let it be said that Aziraphale was not a lover of old, outdated forms of communication. The computer he prepared his taxes on each year didn’t look like it ought to still be running, but it did, mostly because Aziraphale expected it to, but also because he applied the utmost care to its routine maintenance and repair. Crowley chuckled to himself, remembering the last time he’d watched the angel use it; the machine had been happily running a copy of the latest Microsoft platform with no trouble. This was especially impressive given that it possessed no hard drive to speak of — just a little slot on its front for receiving those big, flat, floppy disks that had eventually gone the way of the dinosaur — and shouldn't have even been able to load the operating system.

“What’s funny?” The angel asked, hunched over his desk as he scribbled away with a black feather quill. Crowley blushed at the sight of it. He knew that feather quite intimately, but he wasn’t about to comment on _that_.

“You,” Crowley mused, yawning lazily. “Writing letters when you could just send an email.”

“Heaven doesn’t use email,” Aziraphale countered, pursing his lips into a perfect little round “O” and blowing onto his final lines to dry the ink. He folded the letter, quickly working the sheet of paper into an envelope for itself, and ran a bone folder over the edges, leaving them crisp and sharp. He reached for the little wax stick lying on his desk and lifted it toward a candle flame, turning it one way and then the other as the little bead of wax began to melt and flow freely over one end. 

“Why the hell not?” Crowley asked, flopping over to wrap the blanket tighter around himself. “They’ve all got shiny new smart phones, but they can’t figure out email?”

“It isn’t that they can’t.” Aziraphale shrugged as he smeared the red wax over the creamy paper. He reached for a wooden-handled stamp next to his candle, aligning it carefully over the wax puddle, and brought it decisively down, holding it in place for several seconds. “They _don’t_. It’s considered uncouth. Bit too informal, I think.”

“For annual reports?” Crowley scoffed. “Pretentious gits.”

Aziraphale turned from his writing desk, frowning accusingly at the long-limbed demon sprawling over his sofa. “Well, this pretentious git thinks it’s a perfectly nice practice. And it looks so pretty once done. Look.” He set the stamp aside, picking up the neatly folded letter. There, like a bullseye in the center of it, was the perfectly pressed wax seal bearing the mark of Heaven — a neat little set of rampant angel wings. 

“I guess,” Crowley shrugged, sinking deeper into the sofa. He smirked, taking the opportunity to tease the angel almost as an afterthought. “Could think of better ways to waste a little hot wax, though.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you could,” he replied, dropping the letter onto his desk and standing to walk into the kitchen. 

_Wait_. Crowley blinked. _What?_

“That used to be a form of torture back in Inquisition times, you know,” Aziraphale was saying from the kitchen, the telltale sounds of a kettle being set to make tea accompanying his voice. “But I suppose you’d find the whole affair rather entertaining?”

Crowley was frozen, one leg slung over the back of the couch, his mouth gone dry. Aziraphale must have misunderstood the joke. He couldn’t possibly know what he was saying, could he? “Uh,” he said hesitatingly. “Yeah. Sure, angel.”

Aziraphale let out a mirthful laugh, shaking his head as he came around the corner. “Do you know, I’ve only just remembered. There was a time — somewhere around 1480, I believe it was? I was doing a job just outside Barcelona.” The angel’s eyes went a bit hazy. “Oh,” he said. “Such beautiful beaches…”

“Uh huh,” Crowley slumped.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale continued, “I was in the middle of seducing this gentleman at the local _taberna_ — really hitting it off, too — and unfortunately for me, I didn’t realize he was—”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Crowley flailed, making his hair fly wild about his face, and sat up at attention. “You were _what_?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale waved his hands, dismissing Crowley’s outburst. “I was doing one of _your_ jobs, actually. Stirring up mischief and discord amongst the merchants.”

“What, by _seducing_ them?” Crowley wailed.

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale sighed. “But that’s hardly the point of the story.”

Crowley gaped at him, for once finding himself utterly at a loss for words.

“Anyway. Next thing I know, I’m being hauled off to the dungeons and cited the laws of the land. Turns out, this lad was an informant for the church, and he thought I was a man of ill repute!”

“Which you were,” Crowley said, “in this instance.”

“I resent that statement. In any case, they kept me locked in this dreadful dungeon for several days before I was finally able to escape.”

Crowley winced. “Oh, angel. I never knew you went through all that. Wasn’t there anything you could have done to get my attention? Might have,” Crowley shrugged, not wanting to say words like, ‘helped’ or ‘rescued’ or ‘protected’ out loud. “Might’ve done… something.”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale said, grinning with amusement. “That’s just the thing. First thing they did was strap me down on this dreadfully uncomfortable stone table. Cold on the skin… But then they drizzled me with this sort of hot waxy stuff that went solid once it touched you. It was nice. Bit like a paraffin treatment, you know? Only… all over.”

The tea kettle began to scream in the kitchen, and Aziraphale popped back up from his chair, hurrying to silence it. This was lucky, because it gave Crowley the much needed time to recover from the image of Aziraphale, in a medieval torture chamber, being subjected to the application of hot wax while strapped naked to a table and _enjoying_ it. 

Aziraphale returned a few moments later with a silver tray in his hands. It bore a pot of steaming tea, two settings of matching floral china, and a plate of sugar biscuits. “Please,” he said, settling down into a chair and making a place for the tray on the side table, “have a biscuit, dear boy.”

Crowley reached for a biscuit, mostly to have something to do with his hands, and munched on it thoughtfully while Aziraphale poured the tea. He nodded thanks, reaching for his cup and taking a sip to wash down the biscuit. 

“Have you tried it?” Aziraphale asked quite suddenly. 

Crowley nearly choked, sputtering over the rim of his very delicate teacup. He set it down safely in its saucer before even attempting to respond. “Tried what?” He exclaimed, “Torture techniques of the Spanish bloody Inquisition? No,” he raised his hands in supplication, as if She might come to his aid in this moment of utter madness. “No, I have not, Aziraphale. Shocking though it may be, thumbscrews and iron maidens are not my idea of a fun time!”

When he looked up, Aziraphale was frowning across at him, his saucer balanced carefully in one hand, the teacup halfway to his face in the other. He scoffed, pressing his lips together as if Crowley were the most over-dramatic idiot he’d ever been made to contend with. “Who said anything about that? We were talking about hot wax.”

“Not into scalding liquids much, either, angel!” Crowley railed. “Hate to disappoint! That nose dive into perdition might have had some lasting effects on my psyche — I’ll give ya that, but I didn’t come out with any new fetishes for being boiled alive!”

Aziraphale looked up, rolling his eyes skyward and leaning over the table to set down his tea. “We’re not talking about that, either. For Heaven’s sake, Crowley. You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Well, I’m sorry I did!”

Crowley realized then, perhaps a bit later than he should have, that he was shouting. He cleared his throat, reached for his teacup, and shuffled back into the gentle embrace of the overstuffed couch, sipping his tea. 

“Anyway,” Aziraphale said, reaching for a biscuit. “Awfully disingenuous of you to dismiss something without ever trying it. And here I thought your whole thing was questioning the status quo. Being a bit of a rebel, or what have you. Isn’t that what demons do?”

“How did you escape that dungeon, anyway?” Crowley asked, now desperate to change the subject.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, all but dancing in his chair. “Easy. Eventually, when it became clear their attempts at torment were proving a bit less than,” he paused here, his cheeks turning a little pink, “effective… they called in the local bishop, convinced I was possessed by a — wouldn’t you know it — a demon!” Aziraphale was positively twittering with glee. 

Okay, now this was interesting. Crowley could _feel_ his pupils dilating and he’d never been so grateful for the dark glasses that covered his eyes as he was right now. _Fucking Hell_. How had Aziraphale never told him this story before? This was too good. “I’m sorry,” he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he focused all of his attention directly onto Aziraphale. “They what now?” 

“Well,” the angel shrugged, like it was nothing worth mentioning. “I suppose it was to be expected. I was there doing a demon’s work, after all.”

Crowley blinked, fascinated.

“In any case, it was a simple matter after that. The bishop was rather a…” He pulled an apologetic face. “Well, rather an impressionable young man, really. Quite surprisingly young for his station. Rather open to suggestion. So, well…” Aziraphale waffled, fidgeting as he worked to get the words out.

Crowley’s eyes lit up, and he couldn’t resist the grin spreading across his face. He remembered his tea just in time, setting it back on the table. “No…” He said, positively delighted. “You didn’t seduce him, too?”

“Well, now, I may have done,” Aziraphale said, his hands fluttering in front of him as if he had a perfectly reasonable explanation coming to make this all appropriate and aboveboard, if Crowley would only bear with him and have a little patience. Crowley was more than willing to devote the remainder of his afternoon to this conversation for whatever explanation Aziraphale might come up with. He was entranced. 

“But, what was I supposed to do?” Aziraphale asked, looking a bit beside himself. 

“Right,” Crowley nodded sympathetically.

“It had been several days by this point, and I had things to do—”

“I hear you.”

“—and anyway the whole business was becoming a bit one-sided and boring, and I was hungry! All they had for the poor souls to eat down there was a bit of soggy gruel—”

“Truly criminal,” Crowley frowned, oozing validation and empathy.

“—and anyway, if a bishop is so easily susceptible to wiles and seduction, that’s certainly not _my_ fault.”

“Well, sure!” Crowley heartily agreed. “He was bound to be seduced by someone. Might as well be you.”

“Exactly!”

They sat in silence for a beat before simultaneously bursting into laughter. 

“Oh, I’ve been wanting to tell you that story for years,” Aziraphale wiped tears from the corners of his eyes, still giggling.

“Well, why didn’t you?” Crowley asked, reaching for his teacup, suddenly wishing it contained something a bit stronger. Well, he thought, checking his watch, it was well after three now. Why not? He tipped the cup to one side, miracling it into a wine glass full of something red. 

Aziraphale noted the shift, shrugging his shoulders with a chuckle, and worked the same transmutation on his own cup. “Cheers,” he said, reaching over to clink their glasses together. He took a sip of wine, shrugging again. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Never seemed the right time, I suppose. And, I suppose…”

“What?” Crowley leaned back against the couch, still grinning. Satan’s sake, he wished he could have been there, just a fly on the wall to see all that go down. 

Aziraphale glanced down into his wine glass, suddenly shy. “I always thought it might make for a nice opener.”

“Opener?” Now Crowley frowned, not following. 

“Well, after all,” Aziraphale’s eyes rose, locking on Crowley’s. “If I could talk an Inquisition bishop into letting me drizzle him in hot wax, surely I could convince you.”

Crowley blinked.

“So,” Aziraphale’s eyelashes fluttered coquettishly over his wine glass. “How about it?”

—

**Author's Note:**

> Chat at me on [Tumblr](http://vgersix.tumblr.com/) or feel free to try out my [Kinktober prompt list](https://vgersix.tumblr.com/post/630627497689612288/vgersix-hello-there-naughty-children-i-made-a)!


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